


Somehow Escape

by ofwickedlight



Series: Tumblr ASOIAF Oneshots [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cersei is the biggest tsundere of them all, Character Study, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Cersei Lannister, Rare Pairings, Self-Denial, Tsunderes, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 17:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19404628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofwickedlight/pseuds/ofwickedlight
Summary: The lioness does not take well to the wolf's wretched kindness.Tumblr prompt: "Ned x Cersei — The first time Cersei felt a spark."





	Somehow Escape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheEagleGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/gifts).



> Originally posted [**on my Tumblr**](https://ofwickedlight.tumblr.com/post/185810262147/ned-x-cersei-the-first-time-cersei-felt-a-real) for ladystarks, a.ka. TheEagleGirl. <3

It was the sheer gall of it that had stolen her breath, Cersei told herself.

There they were, Queen and insolent Hand, sitting in the godswood amongst the quiet, the Keep, the land, _hers,_ the place where Lord Eddard Stark thought himself _kind_ and _honorable_ when he’d offered her the chance for her and her children to flee before he _tattled_ on her to his precious, beautiful Robert. The _arrogance_ of him, speaking his staged, pretty words of mercy — words that _would_ have been pretty, if not mangled by his barbaric Northern accent. And not only arrogant — _resigned._ Decided, like he’d already won. But _good_ , still, always good, and noble, and _oh so honorable._ Cersei could scarcely even hear what he was saying from where he sat on his high fucking horse.

 _That feigned kindness will fade from your overly long, bland face, once I am done with you, mutt,_ Cersei was tempted to snap at him. Instead, she bit the inside of her cheek to kill her scowl, let her full lips fall into a soft easiness, pretty and soothing, with fangs just behind its curve, waiting to devour any man she’d aimed it toward. Eddard Stark was a righteous _pain,_ self-assured of his honor, good, annoying — and worse, _crippled,_ now, after her brother had put him in his place — but he was a man, still, and she was _Queen Cersei Lannister._ Far more beautiful than his meddling shrew of a wife, golden and elegant, with claws far sharper than any wolf’s. She could sway him. She could _own_ him. She need only smile. All it had ever taken was a smile. It worked on Jaime, the other half of her soul. It worked on Lancel. It worked on all the other peons she’d ordered over the years, pathetic males who thought only with their cocks, because they were only men, and she was Cersei Lannister. It worked on them. And it would work on Eddard Stark, too. It would.

Cersei leaned closer to the wolf lord, letting her golden hair rain down in rivulets over her shoulder. The glowing tips grazed his hand. She reached for it, smiled —

And the wince showed itself before she could catch it — a small gasp, a scowl, and digging nails, clutching into Eddard Stark’s flesh.

Her cheek.

Beyond the pale, scented powder that’d dusted her face, it was swollen. Swollen, and purple. And tender.

Tender, because Robert had hit her. Struck her like an insolent servant who’d stolen his wine. Backhanded her like one of his whores. Punished her like she’d become truth made flesh — the undeniable fact that the wrong man had died at the Trident on that cursed day, and that she’d deserved a better husband, Rhaegar, because she had, she fucking _had,_ and her neck had twisted with the blow, so hard and quick that for half a breath, she thought it’d snapped, and her hair had flown with it, sharp and shining like sunlight, cracking against her face like a traitorous whip.

Her cheek. Her face, beaten and stiff and healing.

And the smile had disturbed it.

Cersei snatched her hand away from him. Blood flew from her nails, splattered Eddard’s sleeve. Lannister crimson on Stark grey. Westerland wildberries on snow. Almost peaceful. Serene. Nothing like the rage rising inside of her.

Rage, because Ned Stark had seen her be _honored_ with the lump that sat on her face. And he saw her now.

Rage.

Not shame.

Rage.

But Cersei was a lioness. She was always enraged. It was in her nature to be so. It was what made her strong. The rage was not foreign — it was her. She could control it. And things that could be controlled, could be fixed. _This can still be salvaged._ She’d shown weakness, but men liked that, for beautiful women to be weak. If they were weak, they needed to be saved, and Eddard Stark was nothing if not one who perceived himself as savior to the innocent and weak. She could use this. She could.

Cersei let out a soft flutter of a laugh, one that was the perfect blend of embarrassment and softness, and charm. “Forgive me, my lord,” she murmured as a ragged breath fled her throat — part of the performance, of course. She rose her chin to demurely catch his gaze. “I am simply fright —”

Her words hung in her throat. Lips parted, breath halted, as she saw Eddard Stark’s face, truly saw it.

Not his face — the _parts_ of it. The mouth, set tight and firm, but somehow not cruel. The brow, dark and furrowed, yet somehow soft.

And the eyes _._

Gods, his _eyes_.

Grey, dark, endless wolf eyes. So dark they threatened to be black. Black like madness, black like evil, black like monstrous, unfeeling, _soulless,_ and yet there was so much feeling in that darkness that for the first time since she’d drawn breath, Cersei Lannister was rendered silent.

Silent, because Cersei knew the abyss that held her gaze. Knew that look in the Quiet Wolf’s eyes.

Pity.

Pity, for _her._

And before she could process it, before she could sneer, raise her paw and smack that look off his face, curse him, because the _nerve,_ the _gall,_ he dares, he _dares —_

A bleeding hand bloomed before her eye, reaching, and held her swollen cheek.

No, not held.

_Cradled._

Like a newfound lover, Ned Stark’s palm kissed Cersei’s cheek, long fingers gracing her as if she were a dying rose he dared not wither. The wind was still, yet the leaves stirred and rustled, a dry song that drowned her, and Cersei felt nothing, not her breath, nor the blood rushing in her ears, nor the teeth sinking into her tongue. Only the rough plains of Ned’s hand on her bruise. _He is warm,_ she realized. Warm, and soft, somehow.

Warm, and the rest of her was so cold. 

_Warm_ , and at his touch, her cheek did not hurt.

“Has he done this before?” Eddard Stark asked, softly, gently, as if she were a fawn he feared startling. That alone should have made Cersei furious, but she felt no fury, only the warmth. It’d spread to her other cheek, like some abhorrent disease, as if she were blushing. Not _as if_ — she _was_ blushing. _Good,_ she told herself. _Men love blushing women. I have salvaged this._ She had.

She had, yet she found herself pulling away from his touch, away from _him,_ eyes locking on his bleeding hand, the crimson crescents her claws had given him. “Once or twice,” she said just as softly, unbidden. “Never on the face before. Jaime would have killed him, even if it meant his own life.” _Why I am telling this fool any of this? He’ll be locked away soon enough, out of my sight, freezing in the North where he belongs._ That, or dead; she had not decided yet.

Out the corner of her eye, Cersei saw Ned lower his head, long horse face solemn. Solemn, for her. Caring. _Caring,_ and Cersei couldn’t … she ...

Cersei’s eyes stung. She blinked water away, gaze burning into his bleeding hand. Red slivers oozed down white flesh, thick and slow, like crimson tears. Somehow, that renewed her anger, brought her calm face to fury. _Do not weep for_ me, _Ned Stark._

Cersei met his gaze then, chin raised, nostrils flared, eyes dry, defiant. Ned only stared back, solemnness unwavering. Pitying her, _still,_ but something else too, now. As if he were reflecting. Reflecting, and his dark grey eyes became softer than Cersei Lannister had ever seen them. Soft, like clouded midnight. Misty clouds, like _unshed tears_ , and she hated him. She fucking hated him.

Cersei snapped to her feet, Lannister eyes glaring down at the mutt like the pissant that he was. She laughed. “Does Ned Stark cry for all of his enemies?” she asked. Her words had as much hissing cruelty in them as she could muster, with a scowl to accompany them. She turned. “I will take your words under advisement, my lord.” She almost took a step, then thought better of it. No. She was not done with him yet. Those wolf eyes were silent, but loud, and Cersei Lannister allowed _no one_ to have the last word, especially not some oblivious, unhandsome, pitying, long-faced mutt that she had already bested. “Heed mine as well. Your soft heart will be your undoing. It is your greatest mistake.” _And I will take utmost pleasure in watching that mistake cover you with rot as you stew in_ my _Black Cells, Weakhearted Wolf._

“I’ve made many mistakes in my life, my lady,” said Eddard Stark, sounding exhausted and haunted all of a sudden, but that softness, that fucking _softness,_ and gentleness, still, and for some reason, out of all times she’d been tempted, she _did_ raise a hand to slap him, but only for half a breath, and only half an inch past her hip. Ned was still talking when her hand relaxed. “That was not one of them.”

“Oh, but it was, my lord,” Queen Cersei said, and honestly, perhaps Uncle Gerion had been right when he’d said that Lannisters only spoke to hear their own voices, because she had no _other_ reason to be advising a pathetic enemy who was too stupid to realize he’d already lost. Yet, she went on. “Win you play the game of thrones, you win, or you die. There is no middle ground.” _Do you hear me?_ _I might kill you, you fool. Give me a challenge. Give me_ play. _You should suspect I’ve killed your sweet king already, or are you as moronic as you are_ kind? _Are wolves truly so easy to defeat? Can your paws only offer sweet caresses?_ He had not touched her for countless breaths, but that warmth was still there, holding her swollen cheek. Some part of her wondered if her flesh was still as bruised as it was, though that was a silly thought. The naive wolf held no healing abilities, as supposedly gentle and honorable as he thought himself to be, and gods, _why was she still here?_

With that, Cersei left him, footfalls purposely slow and calm as she entered the Keep. The concealed air beyond the doors greeted her like a smothering, yet the air on her cheek remained fresh, new.

Soft.

Cersei raised a hand to touch it, only to see that it was shaking. And not just her hand — her heart, too. It was beating out of time. Out of time, like the leaves that were moving even though the wind had stilled, and her ragged breath, despite the fact that she’d sat there frozen.

 _It is my wrath stirring me,_ Cersei Lannister knew. _My rage. Weakness overcame me, in front of a foolish enemy, no less. Then he humiliated me with kindness, and not even a feigned one. He was_ genuine. _Had pity, for_ me. His fucking pity. _That_ was what shook her with rage, left her speechless, breathless, weightless — soon to be former Lord Hand Eddard Stark, and the fact that he _dared._

The insulting boldness.

The sheer gall.

The soft, condescending nerve.

Yes.

That was it.

Only that.

Only.

 _Only,_ and Cersei Lannister decided that she _would_ kill Eddard Stark, after all.

* * *


End file.
